I've always loved Afghan mulberries and wished I could plant a tree in my garden. The fruit is absolutely delicious and makes superb jam. I tried in the past to bring them home to France, but it didn't work out because I planted them at the wrong time of the year. So this time I went to the market to buy some, and the vendor gave me 50 very small ones, all wrapped up. I thought, My God, what am I going to do with all these mulberries? Then, just before I left the country, a friend from northern Afghanistan also brought me five quite large mulberry trees. Suddenly I was submerged by mulberry trees and was giving them away left and right.
When I returned to France, I went to dinner at the home of an exiled Afghan family living in Geneva. They haven't returned to Afghanistan in 25 years. They were so moved at the sight of the two mulberry saplings I gave them that they almost burst into tears. I ended up with five of the trees in my garden, and they're growing very well.
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I had been to this region many times in the 1980s, particularly during the Soviet war. Back then I felt safe about traveling, but now it's much more hazardous. I couldn't go where I wanted because there was always a concern about being attacked. In fact, I canceled a trip to the southeastern part of Afghanistan because I was told it was much too dangerous.
I approached the international Red Cross to travel with them, thinking it would be the safest way to go by road. But I changed my mind. Several days later one of the Red Cross convoys was attacked, and the Salvadoran delegate—who was traveling with Afghans—was taken away and shot dead.
While the situation appears to be good for Afghans in Kabul, in other parts of Afghanistan security is probably worse than ever. Since the U.S. became involved, it's actually a lot worse in many areas.
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We always heard that Afghan women are reclusive and that we shouldn't talk to them. We were told to avert our eyes if we saw a woman, covered or not, particularly if the husband or brother was with her.
We were in Hazarajat in central Afghanistan, doing a one-day trek to visit villages and talk to people. When we came to one village, we saw a young woman cleaning pots in the river. But instead of running away, hiding herself, or even just turning away, she immediately began screaming at us, "Come for tea in our house! Come for tea in our house!"
We kept saying politely, No, no, it's OK. We don't need tea. But she insisted, "No, you're guests in our country. You must come for tea."
Then she began screaming to her husband, "These guests are here, and we have to invite them for tea."
This was the first time we had encountered a rural Afghan woman who was almost aggressively polite. She kept demanding that we come to the house and have tea because that was part of Afghan hospitality. We continued to politely decline, waving to her and walking away while she shouted after us.
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